“Yeah.”
I went to my room. I was sweating. I wondered how the hell I was going to get Penelope Grayson out in three, days. Or in three years for that matter.
In the morning I lay in heel for n long time. I was still bushed, I sent down for coffee and six raw eggs. I dropped the eggs into a glass of bourbon and drank the mixture. Then I drank the coffee. I felt bad that it was the wrong month for oysters.
I propped myself up in bed with pillows and thought about Oke Johnson. He was a big, dumb Swede who thought he was smart. But I had to get the guy who shot him. It would be swell to have people point me out as the private detective who wasn't bright enough to find his partner's murderer. Oke would have had to revenge me for the same reason. I certainly had a great start; a guy carrying a staff. McGee seemed to be the only one who might fit. McGee! I got out of bed.
The Vineyard didn't look like a place where there could ever be trouble. Women were working in the fields, their costumes bright against the rows of green vegetables. Birds looked for insects on the big lawn. I went to the women's building and climbed the wooden stairs and knocked on the door. A faded woman in a black outfit came out.
“I want Miss Grayson.”
“Have you been to the office?”
“Yes. They sent me over here.”
She looked dubious, but she went inside. I waited on the steps. Pretty soon Penelope Grayson came out. She was in a white costume. She looked more awake than she had last time. She had a good skin. Her ash-blonde hair hung over her shoulders.
“Oh, it's you.”
“I came to see if you'd changed your mind.”
“You're just wasting your time.”
I said: “This is what your uncle hired me to do.”
“Why doesn't he let me alone?”
“He wants to help you.”
“I don't want any help.” She moved closer to me. “Tell him that. Now please go.”
“I want to ask you one thing.”
“What?”
“Did you tell anyone I spoke to you about Mr. Johnson?”
“No.”
I watched her face. Her brown eyes were calm. I was sure she wasn't lying. “Please go,” she said. “I must prepare my bridal garments.”
“Your bridal garments?”
“I am to be Solomon's bride.”
She turned and went in the building. Solomon's bride, I thought, must be what they called them when they were initiated into the Vineyard. I stood on the steps for a minute, thinking, and then I walked to the car-line. I was just where I'd been.
I got off the street-car and went to the house where I'd seen Carmel. It was hot and the walking made me sweat. I wondered if it ever got cloudy in Paulton. The blinds were drawn in the house, and it looked as though everyone was still asleep. I rang the doorbell.
After a long time the fat woman I'd had trouble with opened the door. She had on a pink wrapper. She wasn't friendly. “What do you want?”
“Is Carmel there?”
“You've got nerve, coming around at this time of the morning.”
She would have slammed the door, but I stuck my foot in it. “Is she there?”
“Get your foot back or I'll call for help.”
“Go ahead.”
She kicked my ankle. I put my shoulder to the door and shoved. She went over backwards on the floor. “You bastard!”
I came inside and closed the door. She had a silk nightgown under the pink wrapper. She yelled: “Jim! Oh, Jim!” She got up and started for the stairs. I grabbed her arm and jerked her into a chair. Her hair hung over her eyes.
“You get out of here,” she said furiously. “This is a respectable house. I've got a permit.”
“Listen; all I want is a civil answer to my question.”
A couple of girls came to the top of the stairs. They were both blondes. The fat dame saw them. “Greta, where's Jim?”
The blondes started clown the stairs. At the same time a Negro came in a door at the back of the hall by the stairs. A knife scar split his upper lip. He looked big and mean.
“Throw this bastard out, Jim,” the fat woman said.
